


The Spy in 221B

by StormLeviosa



Series: The spy and the consulting detective [2]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complete, Crossover, Everyone appears at least once - Freeform, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, James Bond References, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-12-20 13:37:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11922021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormLeviosa/pseuds/StormLeviosa
Summary: The first time John Watson met Alex Rider, the boy was huddled half dead on the steps of 221B... Sherlock tries to deduce a spy, Alex complains about James Bond and John is a bit confused. Will be updated when I have time. Currently taking prompts and requests. Cross-posted on fanfiction.net .





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story on here but it has been cross-posted on fanfiction.net under the same username. Constructive criticism and reviews are welcome in the comments, as is 'Brit-picking' although I am British so there shouldn't be too much. I will try to update once a week as I have ten chapters currently and unless I get more ideas there will be around eleven or twelve by the end (far more than my original estimate of two). Thanks for reading; hope you enjoy!

The first time John Watson met Alex Rider, the boy was huddled half dead on the steps of 221B. He had been living with Sherlock for a month, had Lestrade on speed dial, and seemed on a constant mission to pick up more milk. Indeed, he was currently returning from his latest epic battle with the chip and pin machine. The London rain soaked his jacket and made the steps slippery so when he tripped he was not immediately alarmed. Then he saw the blood mixing with the spilt milk. His first thought, ironically for a doctor, was to wonder how he had injured himself; then, upon realising he wasn't injured, what exactly was bleeding all over the steps. He saw the boy. In a flash, he was on his feet and, ignoring his shopping (the milk was gone anyway), turned to the teenager slumped unconscious before him. 

 

He was not foolish enough to ask if he was alright. He identified the injury (stab wound to the lower left abdomen) and, after checking his breathing and heart rate, decided he could be carried into the flat. As he bent down to lift him, the boy groaned and opened brown eyes wearily. “Don't move,” John told him, “I'm a doctor. I'm just going to take you upstairs, then maybe call an ambulance.” To his surprise, the boy seemed to grow more and more alarmed before finally shooting out a hand and grabbing his wrist. His grip was disconcertingly strong. “Tell no one I'm here, doctor. No amb’lance.” His speech had started to slur from blood loss and John quickly hoisted him up and hauled him ungracefully up the remainder of the stairs, shouting for Sherlock to “open the bloody door” as he did so. Sherlock ignored him but Mrs Hudson was kind enough to come up and help him with the keys after much exclamation over his unexpected guest. He laid him out on the sofa and ran to get the emergency first aid kit (under the bathroom sink- Sherlock had way too many “accidents”). The boy's jacket came off, then his shirt, to reveal a simple but deep stab wound. It hadn't hit any vital organs but would definitely need stitches and probably overnight observation. His hand barely shook as he stitched the wound and he was so engrossed in his work he didn't notice Sherlock until his hand landed on his shoulder. He was frowning and had picked up the t-shirt from the floor. He was deducing.

 

“What do you think?” John asked him, curious. But Sherlock didn't reply, still staring at the teenager on the sofa, bare chest showing the scars John hadn't noticed in his hurry to stitch him up. He saw them now though and was shocked. The scar on his chest was the most obvious and recognisable: a sniper's bullet wound just a few inches above the heart. John had a matching one on his shoulder. Just as he learnt closer to touch it, the boy sat up sharply and caused him to jerk back with a start. Sherlock seemed to nod to himself and started to list his deductions. “You're British born but live in America, have done for a few years. No; less; one. You have no living blood relations so you don't live with family. Who then? Friends most likely. You're in England for a reason but you're not supposed to be. You're worried you'll be found by someone. Your scar was made by a sniper and you are obviously fit and healthy so I would say military but they wouldn't accept you in the States and you were too young before you left here so how? You're tough, born and raised in London, have just been stabbed and shouldn't be in the country. You're some kind of criminal I'd guess, perhaps a gang or drugs perhaps.” He looked at Sherlock in surprise and John laughed at his expression. “Did he get it right?” He asked, still chuckling. The boy shook his head though and the laughter stopped. “What did I miss?” Sherlock hissed angrily and glared at the boy; he hated to get things wrong. The boy just gave an enigmatic smile and struggled upright, reaching for his shirt. John helped him put it on and frowned at him seriously. “I think we have a right to know your name.” The boy frowned back and seemed to consider for a moment before replying. “I think I have a right to know yours.” John reached out a hand to shake as he replied “John Watson. My friend who's currently in a mood is Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective.” He smiled and shook his hand. “The name's Rider, Alex Rider.”

 

They watched telly that night. Alex had opted to stay after John threatened to put Mycroft on him so they had ordered takeaway, Alex had claimed the sofa for his own and they had stuck a James Bond movie on. Sherlock tutted his way through most of it, complaining that the plot twist was too obvious, but it was Alex who wore a disapproving scowl for the whole film. Q was “not as good as Smithers”, the explosions were “unrealistic" and his biggest complaint: “he's a pretty useless spy if everyone's expecting him!” He was sarcastic and made John laugh but John wished he hadn't spoilt the movies for him. “How do you know so much about spying?” Sherlock asked afterwards. Alex froze, shoulders stiffening almost imperceptibly, and looked at the floor for a moment before replying. “My uncle taught me.” Then he turned over a went to sleep.

 

John woke him early the next morning to check his stitches. The still groggy Alex was far more pliable and answered more questions than before. He seemed to have a never ending tale to tell when asked. He wanted to leave but John forced him back and asked him why. “I'm cursed,” he had responded with a dramatic wave of his arm, “everyone who cares about me dies.” Then he opened up. “He was right, you know. I have no blood relatives. My parents died when I was a kid, my uncle died when I was 14. Then my guardian, Jack, died when I was 15 and I went to live with the Pleasures. They were great but They found me again and I couldn't let Sabina and her parents get hurt so I went back to London and stayed with Tom. Then They followed me here and I had to go  _ back _ and now I'm here.” John noticed the inflection in his voice and recognised the hesitations of a man hiding secrets. “Back where?” He asked in confusion. Alex yawned and gave a blissful grin. “The bank of course. Vauxhall road.” He blinked sleepily and John told him to rest while he made some tea.

They sat in the darkened living room, Alex with the mug, John on his laptop open on Google earth, researching Vauxhall road. Sherlock came in and looked over his shoulder, giving a start when he saw what John was looking at. It was an article about a shooting that had happened only metres from a major bank, the Royal and General, and the victim was a teenage boy, name withheld, age unknown, as was the shooter's purpose. He had almost died that day, would have if he hadn't stepped off the pavement. Sherlock wasn't interested in that though. “Mycroft or Blunt’s?” He asked and Alex turned to him incredulously. “Excuse me?” Sherlock was like a bloodhound on a fox and dove in for the kill. “The Royal and General on Vauxhall road. It's all a front but you seem very familiar with it, familiar enough to get shot as you left so I'll ask again. Are you Mycroft's or Blunt's?” Alex looked more and more terrified and John knew Sherlock had realised something he hadn't. “Don't tell them I'm here. Please, I can't go back yet.” Sherlock was rapidly losing his patience and I grabbed his arm warningly. “Mycroft or Blunt's?” He asked again and the boy's head lowered in defeat. “Blunt,” he whispered and Sherlock shook his head sadly. “How long?” Alex didn't take long to reply this time and bitterness had crept into his tone. “Since I was 14. I didn't want it.” John was quickly becoming confused and stood to get more tea. Sherlock and Alex sat just a little closer and spoke in low voices.

 

He left the next day. John still had no idea who 'Blunt’ was or why the Royal and General was 'a front’ but Alex had got on much better with Sherlock and had even offered to help with dinner. He was unphased by Sherlock's experiments: the severed head in the fridge, the toes on the grill, the eyes in the microwave or the worms he had kept in a box in top of the breadbin. He was a proficient cook, until he made the kettle explode. How he did it, John had no idea but it caused Mrs Hudson to tell loudly about her rules regarding explosives which John hadn't realised they had (although with Sherlock around he shouldn't have been surprised). John had checked his stitches and pronounced him fit to leave but he decided to stay the night anyway. “One more night before they send me off to who-knows-where,” he had responded when asked. Sherlock promised to look into who exactly his attacker was but Alex just shook his head. “Better if you don't know,” he stated, “they tend to kill people who find out about them.” Sherlock simply sighed and muttered something about spies being boringly noble. The boy chuckled and stepped out the door after carefully looking both ways and up to the rooftops. He turned slightly, waved, and was lost to the crowd, a single blond head amongst thousands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time John met Alex was much like the first... set a few months after 'the Reichenbach Fall' and Sherlock's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So happy with the response from the first chapter! 64 hits and 8 kudos in three days! This is the second chapter and probably the most heavily edited of all. Originally, it was around a thousand words, now it's probably closer to two. Comments are encouraged and very helpful; I really want to improve my writing as much as possible. Enjoy the chapter!

The second time John Watson met Alex Rider was much like the first. The young man was injured, obviously, but had somehow managed to penetrate 221B all the way to the living room and was halfway through looting the first aid kit for bandages when he walked in. He dropped the shopping and ran to the boy just in time to catch him as he passed out. Laying him on the couch, John felt a pervading sense of deja vu. The only difference was Sherlock's lingering absence and the grief John couldn't quite shake. As he came to, Alex mumbled something in a language John didn't know and so the only words he caught were “Dr Watson”. His hands moved efficiently, feeling for injuries and internal bleeding, but he still responded with an affirmative. Alex hummed slightly and responded, in English, with something that made John's blood run cold. “He said you'd still be here. 'If there's trouble, go to 221B and John'll be there to help you.’ He said he'd be lost without his blogger.”

  


It turned out Alex's injuries were rather more severe than the last time: a gunshot wound to the shoulder and upper thigh (alarmingly close to the artery), a concussion and several broken ribs. That Alex had made it to Baker Street at all was some kind of miracle but John didn't care. Alex had spoken about Sherlock, he was sure, and as if he was still alive. When he was conscious, Alex remained tight-lipped but when he dreamt he muttered and twitched. Mostly he spoke that strange, foreign tongue John didn't recognise but the odd English phrase would startle him out of his stupor. “Jack” was one, “Scorpia” another. They meant nothing to him but he resolved to ask later if possible. 

  


Alex woke up at around ten in the morning. John was in his third cup of tea and was about to have a second breakfast when he heard his guest moan and a thud as he tumbled off the couch. He raced into the room to find him sitting on the floor rubbing his head wearily. John chuckled despite himself and helped him back onto the chair. “Stab wound healed up nicely,” he began, nodding at Alex cordially. Alex stayed silent. “How did you injure yourself this time?” He asked, fully expecting more silence. “Classified.” John merely grinned; he had a trump card to play. “My flatmate's brother is the British government. I was in the army for more than five years as a medic, working with all sorts from civilians to SAS. I think you can tell me.” Alex looked surprised and John rolled his eyes as he stood to get more tea. He felt they would need it. 

  


“I was in Ireland.” He turned in astonishment and sat back down. “There were some men who had tried to steal some weapons plans and I was sent in as backup for the agent already there. My cover got blown. There was a… disagreement over how exactly they should dispose of me and I escaped. It's happened before.” As if that made it ok. John snorted in disgust. “You're a spy.” He stated and Alex nodded, licking his lips. “My uncle put the bank as my legal guardians somehow. He died; I finished the mission. Blunt's used me ever since. I had a break when I lived in America but then I left so they got hold of me again and brought me back.” John shook his head sadly and asked his burning question. “Where did you see Sherlock?” 

  


Alex didn't answer right away, just stared at him oddly and blinked. “I was in Serbia? I think it was Serbia, about three months ago. We both ended up chasing the same group of men. They were ex-Scorpia, running under Moriarty. I'd just escaped them, Sherlock was just coming in. I… borrowed his extraction team. I don't get one, you see, and he ran distraction while I did the deed.” John had stopped listening after the first sentence. “Three months ago? Sherlock died a year ago.” Alex stopped his frantic hand wringing and stared. “What?” John retrieved the stack of newspapers and tossed him the first one. Alex was delusional, he had to be, there was no way he could have survived the fall. The conversation was over. Silently, John returned to his tea making.  “It was him,” he said quietly “I know it was” 

  


The day passed in uneasy silence, punctuated by Alex’s grumbling. He was catching up on recent TV, the soaps and game shows that he would be expected to know about if ever he was on a home mission. John had popped out to the surgery for the afternoon shift and returned with takeaway in the evening in a much more rational mood. He met a lovely lady in the reception, the first woman he thought he may have a chance with since Sarah all those months ago. Bustling around the flat looking for plates, he was positively perky. Alex looked a bit brighter than in the morning, too: grinning and almost chatty. The news was turned on, a story about the continuing crisis in the Middle East, channel switch, a wildlife documentary on crocodiles, channel switch, a cheesy romance film, channel switch along with a crinkled nose, mythbusters, channel switch and a derisive snort, the TV turned off. John chuckled, “nothing on that you fancy?” Alex shook his head and attempted to swallow his enormous mouthful of pizza to respond. He failed and coughed slightly. “Nothing good is ever on on a friday night. This is good pizza; not Italian good, but definitely better than some.” John smiled but Italy seemed to have reminded Alex of something. His gaze was distant and his fist clenched tight. Not a happy memory, then. “You’ve been to Italy?” He seemed to come back to himself and hummed in agreement then shuddered. “Only a couple of years ago. It was… an unpleasant experience in the end.” There was a story behind his words and John was curious but there was no way for him to push the topic without simultaneously pushing his new friend away. “A mission?” Alex shrugged with one shoulder and looked away. That was all the answer he needed so he dropped the topic, returning to his pizza.

  


“Did you know there are ways, particularly amongst spies, to fake your death to avoid your enemies?” John raised an eyebrow; it was an abrupt topic change. “The Italy thing ended with the sniper at the bank.” He tugged at the neck of his shirt to reveal the ugly scar near his collarbone. “The bank made up some death certificates for me, gave me a ‘break’. Would have worked if I hadn’t got involved in a kidnapping and a rigged space hotel.” John stared disbelievingly and Alex laughed. “It’s crazy but it’s true. The second time was after… after Cairo.” He shuddered and blinked rapidly, then set his jaw stubbornly. “Let’s not talk about Cairo. You need a system, experts in the relevant fields, friends in high places, but it’s possible.” 

  


John stood abruptly and paced angrily to the table to pick up the empty plates. “He’s dead. That’s all there is to it.” Alex shook his head sadly. “I saw Mycroft. He didn’t look happy to see me.” John snorted in contempt and gave an ugly, barking laugh. “Mycroft never looks happy to see anyone.” Then he frowned in contemplation. “But Mycroft hates legwork.” Nodding enthusiastically, Alex grinned. He leant forward in the chair, eager to see John come to the same conclusion: who would Mycroft Holmes do legwork for, if not his little brother? “He’s definitely alive?” He wanted the confirmation of someone who knew, without question, whether such a death could be faked. “Yes.” And John knew how he did it. He closed his eyes, revelling in the plan’s brilliance. “Mycroft for the forged documents. Molly for the coroner's report and the body. Homeless network for the set up. And an empty grave at the end. Just like him.”

  


Alex stayed much longer the second time they met. Broken ribs are not pleasant and his wounded leg kept him off his feet for a few days at least. John was suitably impressed with his ability to simply ignore pain and keep on going as he wrote up draft reports on scrap paper. The sheer magnitude of injuries he had received spoke volumes for the kinds of people he was sent after. They seemed to enjoy torture. Alex had picked the entertainment after they had watched only one more Bond film and he had complained about every part of it. It was pleasant. Then he seemed to get antsy. The news made him pale; there was a particular story in which a seemingly ordinary man was found dead with a scorpion carved into his chest.  He couldn't stop fidgeting and moving. His hands twitched and his eyes flickered. Then he was simply gone and in his place was a note, written on warped parchment in an opened envelope. The wax seal embossed with a scorpion.

_ John, _

_ Thank you for the use of your flat, medical supplies and company. Sorry I couldn't stay longer but I didn't want MI6 to find out about me knowing you. You're sort of like a secret hideout. I have a few but you're the best. I hope Sherlock eventually finds his way home and that you won't be too angry when he does. I'm almost certain he did not mean to be gone so long and that he would have told you if he could. Don't give up on him yet. _

_ Alex _

  


It was almost two more years before Sherlock returned. John punched him when he did. Alex, watching from the shadows of the crowded restaurant, laughed and knew everything was normal again in 221B.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technically chapter 1.5- an interlude set between chapter 1 and 2. It details the mission on which Sherlock encountered Alex (referenced in chapter 2).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still so happy with the response to this. I wasn't expecting people to like it so much. I'm not really that happy with this chapter, reading it back. It's too choppy and not as good as I'd like but I didn't want to change it too much. Please leave comments, requests and kudos if you want; I really appreciate it!

Sherlock was watching the compound, waiting for Moriarty's men. The gun was heavy in his hand but unlike some he had no reservations about killing any who walked out of the building. He was a high functioning sociopath after all. A door opened and he readied his weapon, breathing even, hands steady. Staring down the scope, preparing to fire, he jumped slightly at the crackling voice in his ear. “There's an East Wind coming, brother mine.” Mycroft. It must be urgent. Before he could respond he heard a footstep behind him and the click of a gun. It was pressed to the back of his head. His captor was Serbian, middle-aged, a bodybuilder. All this he knew in several seconds. He was led towards his target with his hands in the air: a universal sign of surrender. His gun had been lost on the ridge. The guards spoke in rapid Serbian and Sherlock, while having a basic understanding of the language, was not in any way fluent. Two and a half hours was not enough time to learn a language, even for a genius. As they marched down damp corridors he felt the chill that comes with being underground but ignored it in favour of deducing his captor.  _ Married with a young son. Well versed in weaponry and crime but not respected enough to be any more than a hired thug.  _

 

They had arrived outside a cell now and the man was yelling in Serbian again. “Hey, spook, there's another spook here to keep you company.” The voice that responded was croaky but thick with sarcasm. “Yeah, I totally wanted company more than anything else.” His captor chuckled, a strangely soft sound for such a brutish man. “Maybe he'll keep you sane.” There was a bark of laughter at that and the voice called back: “ bit late for that. I'm already mad.” As he finally finished speaking, Sherlock's earpiece crackled into life. “Agent, report,” came the faint, tinny voice in his ear. Not Mycroft now. The man lost all joviality and, swearing creatively, tore the earpiece from him, crushing it beneath his booted foot. Sherlock resisted the urge to snigger: they would definitely know something was wrong now. The door was opened and Sherlock was pushed into the cell. The door slammed shut with grim finality and the pair were alone.

 

Chained to the wall was a very young man, no older than eighteen. His hair was brown but the dye was fading to reveal blonde streaks.  _ In disguise, a spy. Very, very young for it and definitely not one of Mycroft's. Blunt's then. Here to deal with terrorists most likely, that's his division, probably with little to no backup. Appears dehydrated, bruises date back a considerable amount of time. He's been held captive and tortured but has held out well. Uses sarcasm as a deflective mechanism under stress and knows how to utilise it. Conclusion: experienced despite age, started as a teenager (technically illegal) and never formally quit.  _ The young man opened his eyes and coughed slightly. His eyes widened comically as he realised who was in the cell. There was recognition. Sherlock searched his mind palace frantically. Who was he? One name seemed to fit the chained spy. “Rider,” he stated, “how did John's stitches hold up?” Alex chuckled and coughed again before dislocating his thumbs and sliding out of the chains. Sherlock looked on in amusement as he dusted himself off and replied. “Well, thanks. It was nice to be somewhere other than Blunt's office or a hospital when I came back.” He relocated his thumbs with a click and stood, slightly stiff from being in the same position for so long. “Well, if there's trouble, go to 221B and John'll be there to help.” He nodded in gratitude and smiled grimly. “Ready to get out of here?”

 

They decided Sherlock should be the distraction. He was new, an adult, and inexperienced and so any action would be completely unexpected. Alex was small enough to hide. When the men came to gloat, Sherlock lunged at the door, shrieking like a banshee, and in the commotion that followed Alex stole a knife from a man's pocket. Sherlock was removed from the room, thrashing like a rabid animal, but not before crying out, in French, “when you see John, tell him I'd be lost without my blogger.”

 

The irony of Mycroft “the Ice-man” Holmes doing the legwork he so despised to get his brother out of trouble was not lost on Sherlock. His captors had moved him once they realised Rider was free and for two weeks he was trapped in the dungeon of one of the web’s strongholds in eastern Europe. Mycroft joined him on the flight home. He was angry with his little brother for the stress he had put him through but chose instead to contain his emotion. Sherlock had seen the slight twist of his face though. He had asked after Alex on the plane. Mycroft’s sneer of disgust spoke volumes. “That was a disaster. Blunt and I work completely separately; we never do combined missions and never collaborate. Agent Rider's involvement was purely coincidental.” Sherlock just snorted under his breath, prompting another glare from Mycroft. Then he sighed and, pinching the bridge of his nose, gave Sherlock a file. 

 

It was among the largest Sherlock had seen. He had seen, legally or not, files detailing missions, agents, gadgets and many terrorist groups but none compared to this agent's. The first page of information was simple stats: his name, age, hair and eye colour, height, weight, on and on it went. After that was a list of completed missions and it was at one in particular that Sherlock stopped in shock. “Scorpia?” He asked, looking up at Mycroft who nodded gravely. Then came his medical records, extensive and horrifying. He had been sniped in the street, Sherlock knew, but he had also faced multiple instances of torture, physical and psychological, and a myriad other injuries. There was a note at the bottom explaining that none of the information was to be given to anyone outside MI6, including his school or, strangely, the SAS. He shook his head as he handed the file back to Mycroft. The boy hadn't deserved what had happened to him any more than John had deserved to be shot saving his men.

 

He found out later that the extraction team that was sent to pick him up got Alex instead. The boy got proper medical treatment but upon arrival in England was bundled off to see Mrs Jones and presumably on to his next mission. Sherlock didn't have time to ponder on him. He, too, was sent on back to back missions: Moriarty's web wouldn't destroy itself. And if he sometimes saw a far too young teenage spy on his travels, or heard rumours of the inescapable assassin chasing Scorpia, he never told.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex meets Mary. He definitely knows something John doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the kudos! I would really love some comments on how to improve my work so please leave them below. As it says in the chapter summary, Alex meets Mary here. I know there are people who hate Mary but personally I really like her and I think she was a great character (Amanda Abbington who plays her is amazing as well). I genuinely believe Alex would know about her past but would keep it quiet for John's sake so that is what prompted this chapter. Hope you enjoy; leave your thoughts in the comments at the bottom.

Alex did not like Mary. It was never explicitly stated but to John, who had spent a considerable amount of time with Sherlock, it was obvious. It was clear in the way his shoulders tensed when she was around, the way he became even more silent and brooding, the way his eyes, narrowed in suspicious slits, followed her every move. At first, he thought it was merely discomfort at the normal rhythm of Baker Street being disrupted but more recently he thought perhaps there was something Alex knew about her that he didn't. (Of course Alex knew things he didn't. Alex was a spy, it's in his job description.) Mary, it seemed, found Alex charming and was not at all perturbed by his periodic absences or his propensity to return with an alarming number of bruises. As John fell more and more in love with Mary, he cared less and less what Alex felt about the whole thing and conveniently forgot that Alex could be incredibly stubborn. 

 

It had begun back when they met for the second time and John had expressed disbelief over Alex's story of seeing Sherlock. Alex had simply jutted his chin out and explained exactly how he had convinced a terrorist organisation he was dead. Now, John was faced with an equally stubborn Alex, but for a very different reason. The wedding. Alex was vehemently refusing to go. He had a plethora of excuses for this: he may be on a mission, he had enemies who would gladly blow up the venue with everyone in it if it meant they could kill him, no one would know him, no one was allowed to know him, and most definitely no one was allowed to know that he knew John and Sherlock. John was at his wit's end. 

 

They had come to an impasse. John wanted Alex to come to the wedding. Alex was adamant that he couldn’t. Sherlock was so confused by the whole thing that they had kept their arguments away from him for his sake; he was busy organising napkins with Mary anyway. It was then that John voiced his suspicions: in the heat of the moment, angrily and spitefully. Alex did not appear hurt in the slightest, although his eyes widened in shock, and denied the accusation. He did not hate Mary, he said, but was only wary and he was wary of everyone. It was true to an extent- the trust of a spy was hard to come by. Alex sighed then and ran a weary hand through his hair. It sent a pang of guilt through John’s stomach as he realised Alex’s exhaustion. “Tell you what,” Alex began tiredly, “I’ll send a friend with a camera so I can watch it live, he’s been desperate to get out of his lectures for weeks. Then, if I’m around, I’ll drop you your present afterwards.” John was defeated by now and nodded his assent. Now he had to break the news to Mary.

 

Alex’s friend’s name was Tom Harris. A dark haired young man with a quick grin and the sort of face that made teachers immediately stick him on the front row, John could see why Alex was friends with him: he needed some fun in his life. After they had been introduced, they had coffee and talked about Alex, who was currently in Singapore on a mission. Tom had many tales to tell, such as the time Alex had fallen out of a tree when they were in primary school, or the time they had climbed the outside of his house to get into his uncle’s office through an unlocked window. They did not stray to the topic of Alex’s missions and it did not escape John’s notice that Alex’s childhood didn’t seem to extend beyond about thirteen years. They spoke of Tom’s parents who had finally gotten a divorce after years of fighting and were now paying for his university degree as an apology for any harm they had inadvertently caused him (they hadn’t noticed him sleeping at Alex’s house for weeks at a time). Then conversation shifted to Sherlock, and John’s blog, of which Tom was an avid reader and self confessed ‘mega-fan’. They laughed about Sherlock’s ignorance of basic science, including the solar system. He was so completely different from Alex, or his reticence, that John wondered how he had remained Alex's refuge for so many years. Just before he left, Tom showed John the hidden camera he would be filming the wedding with- courtesy of Alex and his friends in high places. They exchanged phone numbers and Tom received his own wedding invitation before parting ways- Tom to return to lectures, John to work at the surgery.

 

The wedding was mostly a success. Of course Sherlock couldn’t be happy without a crime to solve but Major Sholto hadn’t died and the wedding itself had been wonderful. Mary had looked radiant in her dress and Sherlock hadn’t lost the rings so that was promising. The news about the baby had been unexpected but not unwanted and Alex would undoubtedly know by the time he returned from wherever he was this time (Tom was just close enough to pick up Sherlock’s announcement on camera). John had never been more in love.

 

Alex had not liked Mary. John knew it in the depths of his bones and thought, now he knew the truth, that perhaps he was right in his judgements. Mary was a spy and a mercenary and Alex had known that somehow, some hidden signal that spies used to identify others of their order in all likelihood. Now she was dead. John had been left with a daughter that looked achingly like the wife he had been unable to trust until she was gone and a hole in his heart that would not heal. Alex still visited when he could, he was Rosie’s unofficial Godfather and intermittently missing Uncle, but splitting his free time between recovering from injuries, visiting his few friends, keeping an eye on Sherlock and writing reports left little time to see John. Absently, John had noticed Alex looked more exhausted than ever but he said nothing. Alex would not appreciate his intervention. Molly was helping with Rosie while John worked and he knew he would heal eventually, everyone does, but it would be a long road and one he would ultimately walk alone. Baker Street would be just as lonely as his house, he decided, until Sherlock had atoned for his crimes. He had broken his promise. He had let Mary die.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during the Abominable Bride. This is the MI6's version of Moriarty's return. Very, very short (sorry about that).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I posted this on fanfiction.net, this was chapter 8 or 9 (I can't remember precisely which. The reason for the change in order is purely that it is now in chronological order. It kind of relates to my (sort of) headcanon that Mycroft is either in charge of or created MI5 security and that is why he asks Mary what she thinks.   
> Another note, I need prompts or chapter 12 will be the last. Currently, I have the following unposted chapters (in no particular order):  
> -Alex buys 221C (the basement flat) and reunits with Snake,  
> \- Scorpia catches up with Alex, there is action, K-unit arrives in force to help,  
> \- Lestrade meets Alex, and Ben Daniels, with interesting results,  
> \- John and Sherlock are in danger; Alex comes to the rescue,  
> \- Mycroft meets Alex,  
> \- Alex goes to an SAS reunion; John, Sherlock and Rosie are on a case nearby. The two meet in the middle explosively.  
> The final chapter is an idea brewing in the back of my mind, as yet unwritten. If you have any ideas for more chapters, post them in the comments.

“Did you miss me?” The message was displayed on every screen across London. Alex suspected it was on every screen in the country. Moriarty was, as he had heard Lestrade say, not his division but he was close enough to Sherlock and new enough about his work to be made privy to the information. He had been called to the bank as soon as the message began to play. Now he watched the techies, lead by Smithers, as they attempted to trace the video, end the terror, find the culprit and all the while that endless loop in the background. (“Did you miss me? Did you miss me?”) They had found nothing. Not the source or a way to stop transmission. Nothing. He let out a frustrated sigh. Why was he here? He didn’t work the computers; he was a spy. Smithers gave him a sympathetic smile which he didn’t return. He was wasted here. He should be out tracking down Moriarty or the men he and Sherlock had missed on their three year crusade. He checked his phone. No messages. 

 

One of the techies yelled in horror. “There’s been a breach in MI5 security.” The poor guy was obviously new, appallingly young with thick curly hair and frantically tapping fingers. Smithers rolled his eyes as he called back from his chair “well, kick ‘em out then.” He went back to tapping away. It took far too long to find a lead. Alex had taken apart, cleaned, and reassembled his gun four times and had started muttering curses in different languages. It was fun to watch the techies flinch or look up when they heard one they recognised. Finally Smithers’ protege, a young woman named Sophia, found the computer transmitting the video (it was in London, ironically) and shut it down. There was instant relief for the workers. 

 

Alex did not relax. A message runner was sent to Blunt and Mrs Jones who made their way down to Smithers’ department. Mrs Jones nodded to Alex but to Blunt he was invisible. He started to pace. “Report, Smithers. I’ve got Mycroft on the line demanding to know your progress. Give me something to tell him.” Smithers finished collaborating with his crew and turned to Blunt, his gaze flickering briefly to Alex. His report was brief. “The video came from a house in London, in Hammersmith. It was rented out two weeks ago by a man going by the name of Moran. He left five hours ago, hasn’t returned. No evidence that Moriarty himself is behind any of this.” Blunt nodded and swept out of the room, Mrs Jones following in his wake. 

 

He checked his phone again. One message this time, from John. ‘Sherlock possibly ODed. What’s the news on Moriarty?’ He typed out a quick response with as much as he could tell (which was a lot as Mycroft was with them). ‘Not at Baker Street so can’t help with OD. Video transmitted from London. 6 doesn’t think it’s Moriarty.’ He thought over what Smithers had said. Moriarty was dead but the video footage showed him very much alive. How? Even if the bullet was a blank, a fall from the top of a building would kill anyone unless they were faking like Sherlock did. Moriarty was dead. They had not captured all of his men, though. Moran was proof. Was it a disguise? Alex didn’t think so, the video was real. So, the video was made before Moriarty died. Moriarty wasn’t back, no one was immortal, he was just very, very clever.

 

He returned to Baker Street late in the evening. He could hear John and Mary talking in Sherlock’s kitchen, Mrs Hudson puttering about making tea. It was so domestic, so calming. He knocked on the door. John answered, the surprise clear on his face. “Can you make tea for one more, Mrs Hudson?” he called. She answered back in typical, rambunctious, Mrs Hudson fashion: “I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.” Then she made the tea anyway. They ended up sitting in the living room, having dragged in a chair from the kitchen for Alex. Sherlock was absent and apparently desecrating hundred year old graves but the tea and friendship was enough to sooth Alex’s rattled nerves. He turned to Mary curiously. “Was it you who hacked MI5 earlier?” Mary grinned impishly and nodded causing him to roll his eyes in exasperation. “You almost gave that poor techie a heart attack.” Then they laughed and any residual tension caused by Moriarty’s ghost dissipated. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex buys 221C under unusual circumstances (but not that strange for him) and reunits with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm updating a day early because I know I will be too busy tomorrow. This is back to the original order as well. I have had no comments, though! Where are you, reviewers? I need your thoughts on this and your ideas for where to take this in the future. At the moment, I have one more chapter to write, making the final story 12 chapters in length.  
> \---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John was leaving the surgery when he received the message. 'Gone to Bart's. Get some milk. Alex needs tea- S.H.’ It was possibly the most terrifying thing he had seen all day and he had seen men who had been stabbed half to death. The day had been long and harrowing and he contemplated taking a cab but at six in the evening walking would be faster. He took the underground. The Tesco at Baker Street tube station stocked milk and from there it was a short stroll to 221B. The door was shut, the knocker at an angle as always, but something seemed amiss. There was an expectant air, as if the sky were holding its breath. 

 

Alex was sitting on the couch. Sherlock had probably deduced the whole situation before he had even opened his mouth but Sherlock wasn't there. It was obvious that he was in shock. He was pale and trembling, his skin clammy. A mobile phone lay abandoned on the table beside him as he stared listlessly at the wall. John immediately put the kettle on. Hot, sweet tea. That was what was always recommended in this situation. When it was ready, he took the mug to Alex and wrapped both the boy's hands around it, sitting next to him on the couch. He flinched away from John's touch. The phone was still there, just out of John's reach, but the faint glow of a photo was visible. He leant forward and picked it up before noticing Alex was not drinking his tea. Somehow John knew speaking would not help. 

 

The image was blurry, as if taken while running. It depicted what was once a pleasant looking house in Chelsea that was now a burnt out husk. What caught John's attention was the crude effigy of a scorpion charred into the grass of the front lawn. What did it mean? God, he wished Sherlock was there. It was only when Alex responded that he realised he'd spoken aloud. “Scorpia never forgives. Scorpia never forgets.” It was the most he'd said since John had arrived. At that moment, Sherlock returned, slamming the door and slumping into his chair with a swish of his Belstaff. He seemed to register everything at once and sat up suddenly, waving imperiously at John to hand him the phone. “Pattern is fairly detailed, prepared beforehand but set alight around midday. Main fire set using petrol, there are traces on the path, but the warning was dry burned probably before the house went up. Suspect is male, tall and heavy set. Footprints show he was walking on his toes, trying to be quiet.” Alex seemed to be coming out of his shock and was nodding in response to Sherlock’s quick-fire deductions. He finally seemed to notice his cooling tea and hesitantly took a sip before placing the mug on a coaster. His hands were steadier now and some colour had returned to his cheeks. John stood and moved towards the door. “I’ll get Mrs Hudson to set you up a place to sleep. I’d offer you the sofa but I think your back would break.” Alex grinned and thanked him quietly before picking up his mug again.

 

Mrs Hudson set him up in her spare room. Why she had it, no one knew but given the situation it was not unwelcome. He claimed he had slept well although the dark circles beneath his eyes belied that. He ate breakfast with them and told them, with a grimace, he would be going to the bank and then a safe house. He did not say where. John was not expecting him to return but two days later he was sat at Mrs Hudson’s kitchen table with a mug of tea and a biscuit talking about the recent terror attacks. By the time Sherlock returned from the morgue, Alex had left with instructions for renovators to have a look at the basement flat. “All anonymously of course. Money’s no object either.” After that, time seemed to pass quickly. Builders and decorators passed in and out on a never ending carousel and before long furniture was moved in (all brand new) and contracts were signed (under an alias). Alex was the proud owner of 221C, the flat directly beneath Sherlock and John. He had warned all of them about his odd hours and told Sherlock to try not to blow things up too often. Then he moved in and life on Baker Street returned to relative normalcy.

 

John had met an old friend from university earlier in the week and agreed to meet for tea. William had joined the army at the same time as John, as a medic, but had advanced further and had joined the SAS. Now, the friends sat reminiscing at the kitchen table over a plate of Mrs Hudson’s scones. The main door opened and John half rose as he heard the slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs. The door to his flat was open to let the air in. It took him a few seconds to recognise the dark haired man before him, stumbling slightly on the stairs. “Alex?” he questioned in disbelief and Alex paused in his attempt to reach his flat. “I weren’t expecting you to be back for a few days yet.” Alex nodded absently and shrugged but he was staring at William with something akin to confusion on his face. “This is a friend of mine from university, William. William, meet my neighbour, Alex.” At least, that is what he tried to say but the two seemed to recognise each other at the same moment. “Snake?”

“Cub?”

“What are you doing here?”

 

It transpired that Alex, codenamed Cub, had trained with the SAS before his first mission when he was just fourteen years old. William, codenamed Snake, was his unit medic while in basic training. They had both apologised and William had been caught up on a carefully edited version of Alex’s life. Finally he had pleaded exhaustion and resumed his trek to the basement flat, dragging a duffel bag behind him. “Please try to stop Sherlock playing the violin at two in the morning,” he yawned as he turned to leave. “I could do with a good night’s sleep.” 

 

John and William glanced at each other as they watched him leave. “He’ll be alright,” John reassured him, “he often comes home at odd hours like that.” William did not look convinced by this; his brows had furrowed together in concern. “He’s injured too,” he said slowly. “He’s good at hiding it but I work with stubborn soldiers all the time, they’re all the same.” John understood his worry- a member of his unit had been injured, he had heard nothing and there were secrets involved he could not know. He clapped a hand on his shoulder and led him back to the table. “I’ll check on him in a few hours, send him down some of these scones.” William looked appeased and they settled back down as they waited for Mrs Hudson to return from the park where she had taken Rosie to feed the ducks. 

 

John woke in the complete darkness of the early morning and wondered why he wasn’t still asleep. Something was wrong. He wracked his brains, trying to determine what was amiss, when the mournful strains of Sherlock’s violin reached him through the walls. He spent a moment appreciating the music’s beauty, then sat up sharply. The memory of Alex’s fatigued words drifted through his mind: ‘try to stop Sherlock playing the violin at two in the morning.’ He left his bedroom to face his flatmate’s wrath.

 

Sherlock, needless to say, was not impressed. He had grumbled and groaned and sawed the bow back and forth in frustration until a disgruntled Alex marched in to see what all the fuss was about. Soon after, John had made them all tea and they sat in companionable silence around a blank TV screen to drink it. Sherlock had calmed down slightly (his violin was no longer shrieking anyway) and had, at John’s prompting, apologised to Alex minutes before Rosie had woken up. Now, she was sat in a terrified Alex’s lap with a bottle of formula milk to keep her quiet. It was a picturesque scene and one that Mrs Hudson just had to take a picture of when she walked in on them fast asleep the next morning. The infamous photo was brought out only on birthdays, christmases and as blackmail material. Alex had threatened to burn them but relented after Mrs Hudson begged him to let her keep ‘just one copy. For the albums, you know?’ 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Alex and Mycroft met with an added cameo from 'Anthea'. Was originally Chapter 10 when posted on fanfiction.net so we're going out of order again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! This story now has a definitive ending, the 12th chapter, which was posted last night (on ff.net) and leads into a sequel that I will be writing and posting around Christmas. This chapter is the story of Alex and Mycroft. I wasn't entirely sure where to put it in terms of timeline as it covers a range of periods but the majority occurs a short time after Alex moves into Baker Street. Please leave your thoughts below- I would love to have at least one comment. Just in case I haven't mentioned it already or it isn't obvious: I own nothing!!

Mycroft met Rider on a grim day not long after meeting John. He strode towards Mrs Jones’ office, swinging his umbrella, and crashed into a young man who seemed to leap out from behind the closed door. “And make sure that report is on my desk by Monday, Agent Rider, or there will be consequences.” The young man chuckled and glanced behind him sheepishly before bounding to the lift. He reminded him of Sherlock somewhat: his stubborn jaw and intelligent eyes. There was something else there too, a lingering sadness that seemed at odd with his boundless energy. Then Mrs Jones was asking him in and she had cake.

 

He did not connect the spy from the bank with the injured man who stayed the night on Baker Street for some time. Even when he did, he didn’t follow up on what he knew. A severe lapse of judgement. Before he knew it, Rider had spent another few nights in the flat Mycroft had ensured was as impenetrable as a fortress and just as visible. He knew everyone who came within ten metres of the place, vetted potential acquaintances thoroughly before meetings were even arranged. He collected a file on Agent Rider. The size of it was alarming. Stormbreaker, Point Blanc, Scorpia, all were his work and his alone. Alex Rider the super spy, fluent in seven languages, proficient in four more, expert marksman, luck of the devil. 

 

Mycroft knew Sherlock would meet Rider in the field one day. He had the file ready for his brother, though there was little he had not already deduced. It satisfied Sherlock’s curiosity. Now he had to ensure they never met again. The file was clear: association with Agent Rider was dangerous and Mycroft’s brother craved danger and mystery like Rider had once craved a normal life. He met the young man once more (when recruiting the older but less senior Agent Daniels) and thought him a jumbled mess of teenager and ice cold agent. There was barely suppressed bitterness to his tone as he bid Daniels goodbye. He would have to watch out for that.

 

When Agent Rider’s house got burnt to the ground, everyone in the intelligence community knew about it. MI6 were frantic, using every resource and favour owed to search for their missing spy. Mycroft knew exactly where he was. He said nothing though. Rider deserved a bit of privacy. Then he bought the flat beneath Sherlock. The alias he used, Alex Baker, was a new one so MI6 didn’t pick up on the transaction but Mycroft, with his cameras and bugs, had listened to the man speak often enough to know his voice and follow the conversation. He needed to have a discussion with his brother’s new neighbour.

 

If asked, Alex couldn’t say when, exactly, he first noticed he was being followed. It could have been when he spotted the same taxi behind him three times in a row. It could have been when a CCTV camera traced his meandering movement through the crowd. It could even have been before that when, early in the morning, he had watched an unfamiliar black car with tinted windows crawl down Baker Street, stop momentarily at 221B, then drive off. Either way, he was being followed and Alex didn't like it. Ducking down a narrow side street under the pretense of looking in a shop window, he watched out of the corner of his eye as the tailer's car slid past as smoothly as a raindrop on a window. There would be at least one person on foot unless they were complete fools. Alex didn't think they were but you could never be sure (those with a flair for the dramatic tended to make rookie mistakes). He wandered further down the street and caught a glimpse of a young woman, glued to her mobile phone, dart into the alley after him. Not a complete idiot then. The game, as Sherlock said, was on.

 

There were many tricks to his trade that he could employ. The upside was that he knew he was being followed but she didn’t know he knew (unless she did but that would make it too confusing to iterate in his mind). He continued down the street, kicking a rock and appearing to all the world like a bored young man wandering the city. Every so often, he glanced sideways into windows to check his tail, noting her dark hair and heeled shoes as she followed behind. Slipping a cap from a tourist stand, he covered his head, shed his jacket and replaced it with a hoodie from his rucksack. The alleyway opened into a wider shopping street. He turned right and immediately crossed the road, jogging to miss the taxis and swinging his head both ways to check traffic. She was following parallel now. He swung round the revolving door of a hotel, walked in the opposite direction, entered a cafe and left out the back door. He caught a bus and watched the woman walk past the road he caught it on. He removed the cap, turned his jacket inside out and put it back on. The bus stopped. He got off and rushed into the tube station. 

 

He knew better than to go straight to Baker Street. Stepping off the platform at Warren Street, he picked up a coffee and a newspaper. The newspaper hid his eyes from passersby; they didn’t know he was watching them. Finally satisfied he hadn’t been followed here, he exited the station and walked towards Baker Street, weaving through crowds with practised ease. As he reached the corner of Baker Street, near the tube station, the phone box began to ring. The camera followed his movement like a hovering bird of prey. Alex’s eyes narrowed in suspicion but he kept walking. He was too close to home to be caught out now.  _ Whatever you do, don’t let them know you know _ . He walked faster, reached the front door. He turned the handle, gave a final two-fingered salute to the camera watching him, and shut it behind him sharply. 

 

“Sherlock!” Alex called up the stairs. “Tell your brother to stop stalking me and I won’t complain when you shoot the wall again.” He could hear John laughing before Sherlock made some unintelligible reply that had Mrs Hudson chastising him as John shouted back “don’t worry. He did it to me, too.”

 

Outside in his black car, Mycroft sat in silence. Anthea had returned to him having failed to apprehend the young spy and now he had the audacity to salute him. He was more skilled than his assistant, an ex-MI5 agent. He needed to increase their training, and possibly the defense budget.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex is in trouble again and it comes right to his doorstep. But K-unit, Sherlock and John team up with him to solve the case. Rosie plays her first major role in the story (even though she's still a toddler) and John learns not to trust anyone when you live next door to a super spy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I didn't update yesterday like I was supposed to! I hope you're not too mad.   
> Here's a new chapter for you to enjoy.  
> Please leave your comments below (I am actually begging now)

The first death bored Sherlock. A young man on his way home from the pub, completely hammered, who had stumbled upon a terrible fate. He stated it was ‘barely a four’. The next was a similar story: a student, mugged and left with his head smashed in on his way to lectures. He was still bored. It was only after the third that he noticed the pattern. Every single one of the murdered men had similar features with blonde hair, brown eyes, and a history of martial arts training. All were born and raised in London, knew its alleys and side streets like the backs of their hands and had no known enemies. The crime scenes were growing steadily closer to Baker Street.

 

Alex had returned from his latest mission a week ago and was on leave for a considerable amount of time thanks to a broken wrist. He didn’t complain and simply went about his business as usual but Sherlock had been watching him with a contemplative look. John was worried by it (Sherlock had had a similar expression at Baskerville where he had attempted to drug John with a known hallucinogenic) but did not voice his worries. It would do nothing to deter Sherlock from whatever madness he was following. Alex spent more time than usual with John and Rosie and joined Mrs Hudson for dinner almost every evening. Rosie adored her ‘Uncle Alex’ and often spent hours on his lap, playing with his hair or clutching his long fingers in her chubby hands. John took photos while Alex scowled at him, Rosie beaming from her place in his arms. It was a time of serenity and easy happiness.

 

The men arrived at eight in the morning, just as John was leaving for work. There were four of them, all big built with stern faces and strong bodies. They glanced at him and one’s hand drifted ominously to his pocket before his friend nudged him warningly. They looked away and continued walking, the leader reading off door numbers as he passed them. John watched from a distance as they walked closer to 221B, then texted Sherlock.

 

Sherlock hadn’t thought the knowledge particularly interesting and hadn’t deigned to warn Alex. The four men, one dark haired and short, one fair haired and tall, one bouncing on his toes in excitement while the final man stood slightly behind in silence, stopped on the doorstep. Their leader raised a fist to the door and knocked in the blunt, utilitarian manner consistent with military men. Mrs Hudson answered the door, dithering slightly at the doorstep before inviting them into her flat while she called down for Alex. He entered silently and stood glaring at the men sat at the kitchen table with untouched mugs of tea. “Wolf, Snake, Eagle,” he nodded before turning to the final man, the silent one, “and who’s this? A new unit member?” Wolf nodded in response and waved a hand at his unit mate who stood and offered a hand to shake. “Hawk. I’ve heard a lot about you, Cub. Mainly Wolf complaining about a parachute jump.” His voice rose uncertainly at the end, as if asking for the full story and Alex chuckled before winking cryptically at Wolf, who scowled. The full story only came out after Mrs Hudson (or ‘the civilian’ as Wolf called her) left.

 

Alex was in danger. This wasn’t news to him, the murders that had recently dominated local headlines had been warning enough, but K-unit’s involvement was a surprise; and not a pleasant one. Their poorly conceived code (“the Sergeant wants you back in hell”) made him cringe and the unknown player that was Hawk made him uneasy. That Mrs Jones had seen fit to contact outside forces for his protection- he was under no illusions that it was her rather than Blunt- was unexpected given Alex’s assessment of the threat’s severity. He had not thought it particularly serious for Scorpia. He thus refused to return to the Brecon Beacons in favour of staying in London. K-unit then refused to leave, Snake started fussing over him, Eagle was bouncing off the walls from too much sugar in his tea, and Wolf looked ready to explode with anger. In the end, they agreed to stay nearby and exchange phone numbers with a link to Alex’s emergency signal rather than in the flat itself. Alex had to tell them about his booby-traps to get them to lay off. 

 

Sherlock and John were returning to Baker Street after a long day on a case involving cannibals, ancient rituals, and environmentalists. The men were still hanging around. Their leader was sitting on a bench reading yesterday’s paper while the blonde, who John recognised as his old friend William, perused a medical journal. John relaxed slightly; if William was around nothing too awful would happen. They entered their flat to find Mrs Hudson comforting a squalling Rosie while Alex lay flat on his back, tears of mirth streaming down his face. “Mycroft came to visit,” he finally gasped out, “Rosie decided she hated him and tipped her lunch on his head. The look on his face!” He broke out into laughter again, making John chuckle and bringing a smirk to Sherlock’s face. Their smiles were gone the next day.

 

Sherlock and John left early when Lestrade called with yet another murder: Sherlock had decided that his boredom meant it was now at least a six and warranted his immediate attention. Mrs Hudson had gone to visit an old friend and while they trusted Alex implicitly, he was known to keep strange hours. A childminder was called to look after Rosie. John got the text from Alex at lunchtime. ‘Rosie’s gone and someone triggered the alarm on my flat. Come home.’ John prepared to leave the cafe. ‘Found a note. Need you and Sherlock here now.’ John started to run.

 

The note was written in Italian on expensive paper and with a scorpion printed on the bottom. Sherlock attempted to translate before Alex, rolling his eyes at their incompetence, snatched it and read aloud. ‘The invisible sword strikes again. You shouldn’t have stopped running. Scorpia never forgive; Scorpia never forget.’ John was pacing angrily, clenching and unclenching his fists. “It doesn’t make sense!” he blurted out, “who did this? Why take Rosie when they could have just waited for Alex to come back from wherever he was?” Sherlock, ever the dramatist, sighed and raised one brow in exasperation. “It’s obvious, John. Use your head. It was obviously the childminder you so foolishly hired this morning. Notice, they are no longer here yet the scent of their body spray lingers on the paper and in the room. They were aiming for Alex, obviously, but when the alarm was tripped they decided to take Rosie instead to lure him to a predetermined location to be murdered, just like the other young men, leaving a note with clues only he could decipher based on his uncharacteristic silence.” It was true: Alex was very quiet, his hands trembled briefly before he shoved them into his pockets, eyes looked up and to the right as if lost in a troubling memory. “There’s a church, here in London, where Scorpia once planned to transmit terahertz beams that would activate a poison lying dormant in every schoolchild in Britain. They called it Invisible Sword. That’s where they have Rosie.” 

 

It was at that moment, K-unit decided to burst in. In a whirlwind of frantic planning and hastily printed OSAs, the whole story was told and a rough plan formed. Alex’s death was not ‘collateral damage’ that could be explained away to the higher-ups at MI6 or the SAS so any contingency that ended in that manner was discarded. Eventually they constructed a plan that could work and hopefully wouldn’t get anyone killed. They made their way to the church.

 

The first thing John noticed about it was that it was no longer a church. A burned out husk stood in a church yard, enclosed by steel railings and choked by weeds. The roof had fallen in at some point so all that remained were blackened stone walls and broken glass. The images of Mary and her child were disfigured almost beyond recognition, faces twisted in gruesome mockeries of benign smiles. Alex walked alone up the central path. The watery moon cast eerie shadows behind him but he appeared unafraid as his long strides carried him onwards. He did not walk as if to his doom. As he approached, a candle flickered into life within. His pace sped up slightly. Three paces away. Two paces. One. The door, hanging off its hinges, exploded outwards and a hailstorm of bullets showered the doorway from both sides. Somehow, both were standing afterwards. Hand to hand combat commenced: Alex against the shadowing figure from the church. Neither seemed to have the upper hand until Eagle spontaneously shot at their enemy. The bullet caught them in the arm, soliciting a scream, cut off abruptly as Alex knocked them unconscious. Then he finally entered the church as a wailing scream became audible. 

 

Alex raced through the church, following the sounds of Rosie’s screams. The darkness was crushing and memories of his last, horrifying, battle in the abandoned church clustered around him, clamouring for attention. He forced them away. There was no time to dwell on the past when the present was so pressing. He prowled through the shadows, darting from cover to cover, never leaving himself exposed. He was no good to Rosie dead. She lay upon the altar, tied by her wrists and ankles. He withdrew a knife from his sleeve and cut her free, pulling her tight to his chest as he turned. He had sensed a presence behind him. Something lurked in the darkness of the church, malevolent and dangerous. Eyes darting around, he shifted into a defensive stance unconsciously, gripping his knife like a lifeline. He had to protect Rosie. Slowly, silently, he took a single step forward. Rosie had stopped screaming and the silence pervaded, less like a blanket and more like a hangman’s noose. He took another step, then another. Sped up as he walked. Faster, faster. He had to get out, had to escape. He had almost reached the door, almost reached safety. The door passed before he realised he was running. He saw John by the gate beside Sherlock. Wolf and Snake by the back entrance. Eagle’s silhouette up a tree. Where was Hawk? Standing watch at the door. Right where he was supposed to be of course. John stepped forward eagerly as he skidded to a halt by the gate. He took Rosie and held her close, checking for injuries with tender hands and soft whispered words. She was safe. They were all safe. It was time to go home.

 

Alex had rang the bank on the way back to Baker Street to get Rosie’s kidnapper dealt with. Their brush with death led to a rather rowdy party that congregated in John and Sherlock’s flat. John cracked open some beer he had in the fridge, which Alex declined, and soon all the stresses of the day had been forgotten. K-unit were the first to leave. Hawk supporting a slightly tipsy Eagle while William- he couldn’t imagine him as Snake- shook his hand and clapped him on the back. Alex skulked off back to his flat not long after, leaving John to put Rosie to bed and go to sleep himself. The clocks struck twelve and Sherlock began to play once again, filling Baker Street with wonderful song.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Lestrade to meet Alex! And also Alex's spy friends. (He solves a case too, of course.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually remembered to update on time this week!  
> For anyone that's interested: my headcanon is that Mycroft 'runs' MI5 while Blunt and Mrs Jones are in charge of MI6. In this made-up universe of mine, Ben Daniels left MI6 and went to work for Mycroft who is a bit better than Blunt in his treatment of employees and so begins this little chapter...  
> As always, leave comments in the box.

If there was one thing Alex could be relied upon to be, it was secretive. He would leave without a word, return in brooding silence, hide behind locked doors, and rarely socialised outside of his small circle of acquaintances (John doubted that he called anyone a friend). It was a huge surprise, therefore, when he showed up at a crime scene. He had been increasingly paranoid and sombre since Rosie’s kidnapping; a pall of thick guilt hung around him as he walked, slumping his shoulders and shortening his stride. He had barely left his flat since he returned a week ago, leaving only to talk to Mrs Hudson, babysit Rosie and persuade John to do his weekly shop. Yet here he was. His hands in his pockets, whistling a jaunty tune, he appeared to all the world a curious bystander. John knew better. His hands were in his pockets to hide their tremor, he was whistling to hide his shaking voice. He was afraid; eyes darting to and fro, feet tapping restlessly. He looked up and nodded at John politely but there was a barely restrained panic in his gaze, a plea for help, and John wandered over to the cordone to speak with him.

 

It turned out Alex had come to speak to Sherlock about the stench from one of his experiments but his closely held paranoia combined with the appearance of several people who resembled past enemies meant he was almost physically shaking. John had helped him calm down slightly before calling Sherlock over too. 

 

It was no surprise that Lestrade followed. He was New Scotland Yard’s own personal houndmaster, with Sherlock as his best hound. It was in his nature to be inquisitive about people and Alex, as a new ‘friend’ of Sherlock’s, was an enigma. Even John had been introduced as a ‘colleague’. Sherlock was in a foul mood. The case, while seemingly easy, was proving difficult as suspect after suspect was proven innocent and scenarios discounted after a moment’s investigation. It was no surprise that he snapped at Alex, who took a half step back. He explained as briefly as possible about the smell (“but decomposing body parts are  _ supposed  _ to smell”) and then wrinkled his nose comically at the response. He asked about the case, only out of courtesy, and Sherlock went to great lengths to explain the whole thing to him. Alex frowned briefly, as if the setup were familiar. “May I take a look?” he asked Lestrade, who nodded slowly and lifted the police tape to let him through.

 

The body hadn’t been moved from its position: tied to a chair in the kitchen. There were no foot or fingerprints, no bloodstains or signs of a struggle, just a dead man tied to a chair. Alex knelt momentarily by one of the knots, examining it, then stood. “I can tell you who it is but you won’t be able to arrest him and you’ll have to deal with SIS and MI5.” Lestrade looked as shocked as John had ever seen him, with his mouth gaping and his eyebrows creeping up his forehead. Sherlock had actually flushed with consternation and was bursting with fury, but he said nothing as Alex pulled out his mobile (the one John had got him for Christmas with only his closest friends’ numbers). They listened to the dialing tone then heard someone pick up. Alex talked for a few minutes, chuckled, then asked if ‘Ben’ had called the Bank yet. The answer appeared to be a negative as he sighed in exasperation, chuckled again, and hung up.

 

The man arrived a few minutes later. He wore a suit as if he were a businessman but the wary eyes and cuff tugging gave away his true profession. Alex clapped him on the back as he arrived and they laughed together like the oldest of friends. Sherlock was eying him up, taking in the tanned face and hands, muscular frame and quiet stride. But Alex had introduced Ben Daniels as a friend from work “who’s saved my life more times than I care to remember.” Ben Daniels had laughed and told Alex it was four and that he owed Alex for Singapore so to watch out next time Jones sent him out of country. He did not have the face or mannerisms of a murderer. Then Mycroft arrived.

 

He did not wait for authorisation. He simply swept in, Not-Anthea tapping away at her Blackberry behind him, and ordered the agent to report. Ben Daniels looked once from Alex to Mycroft and began to speak. “The agent had in his possession a memory stick with a number of sensitive documents. I apprehended him but he refused to divulge its location under intense interrogation.” Alex visibly winced at this and Ben shot him an apologetic look before continuing. “The agent attempted an escape so I tied him to a chair while I searched the building. From what little information I extracted, the memory stick is in the building but hidden and I thought I could find it. When I returned to the room, the agent was dead and all signs of a struggle had been cleared. It was clearly a way to stop him from revealing information. An assassination based on evidence.” Mycroft nodded as his eyes scanned the room; they landed on Alex and stilled, growing almost sad as Ben continued. “I continued my search for the stick and left when I found it before giving the police an anonymous tip off. I had no idea your brother would be called to the scene.” Mycroft stood still before turning sharply and leaving again with a curt nod to his agent.

 

Ben instantly relaxed and slung an arm around Alex’s shoulders, ignoring his shudder at the unexpected contact. He turned to Lestrade with laughter in his eyes and told him to expect the paperwork to come through in the next few days. A protesting Alex was dragged out with him as he left, leaving a flock of furious officers in his wake. Case closed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John bite off a bit more than they can chew on a case. Alex has a job that he probably enjoys more than he should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two more chapters to go before the end of this story. The series continues with 'The Baker Street Boys' and, as stated in previous notes, will have a sequel. I am currently writing the first chapter of this and I'm loving it! I did research for this chapter. Edgeley Road is an actual road in central London and scientists have begun to 'invent' invisibility cloaks (the article is here: http://www.techtimes.com/articles/86479/20150922/invisibility-cloak-technology-invented-by-uc-berkeley-scientists-you-cant-wear-it.htm)   
> Enjoy the chapter and, as always, leave your thoughts below.

“We have five people trying to kill us! What are we supposed to do?” John was frantic, turning his head to get a look at the gangsters that surrounded them. “Actually it’s more like eight.” He stared at Sherlock incredulously, “oh, sorry I wasn’t specific enough. Now answer the bloody question.” Sherlock glared at him before spinning on his heel, coat flying like dark wings. John drew out his gun. “John, phone.”

“Where is it?”

“Coat pocket.”

Rolling his eyes, John fumbled for the phone, found it, then looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Text Alex with the following, exactly as I say it. ‘Edgeley Road, eight men, all armed. Come quickly, use nonlethal force.’ He sent the message and they waited nervously. John flicked the safety off on his gun, watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. The phone buzzed in his clenched fist and he answered it cautiously, aware of the threat but trusting Sherlock not to get them both killed. Alex did not waste any time. “Can it wait ten minutes?” he asked, “I’m on a job but I’m close; if you can last that long I can help.” John glanced around uselessly before replying. “There are eight of them and they all want to kill us.” He heard Alex heave a disgruntled sigh (or it may have been because he was grappling with someone, you never could tell with him) before replying and John winced as he heard a distant thud down the line. “You’ve got your gun and Sherlock’s had an agent’s training. Figure it out. I’ll be there in five.” The tone blared with dull finality and John slipped it back into Sherlock’s pocket. It was useless to them now. 

 

They stood back to back and faced their enemy with all the bravery of a child standing up to playground bullies. Sherlock at least looked imposing; his height was enough to intimidate most men. But John, at his back, looked mouse-like in comparison. Either one alone was dangerous; both together was deadly; against such insurmountable odds they were helpless. John could see Sherlock’s eyes darting from person to person, deducing them most likely, and, not for the first time, wished he too had the Holmes’ particular skill set. He was just looking for a way out that wouldn’t get them both killed. One man held up his gun as if to shoot and John took a half step backwards. Sherlock gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. They were not going to shoot just yet. He shifted impatiently. He was a soldier, used to fighting battles followed by long, monotonous waits, followed by more battles, more injuries to treat. He still got impatient though. Sherlock had finished his deductions. “Head for the one on your right, then down that alley.” The order was hissed out quickly before he leapt to the left and, with a few deft movements, left him writhing on the ground. John moved.

 

The plan went wrong almost immediately. John took down the man on his right but several others had surrounded him and Sherlock, cutting them off from the exit. By the time they were free, the remaining men had climbed up the scaffolding on the side of the buildings to gain the high ground, a perfect sniping position. They were trapped again.

 

Alex had not yet arrived and they were in no position to fight off the remainders of the gang. Those already downed were stirring, shifting with groans of pain as they woke. There was a soft hiss, then a thump. Smoke billowed from one end of the alley. A series of rapid-fire pops, several sudden cries, cut off sharply. The smoke cleared. In the centre of the road, crouched in a fighting stance, stood Alex, shaking his dyed brown hair out of his eyes. He quickly got to work, tying up the stranglers with practiced efficiency. When he was finished, he stood, popping the joints in his back, and put a finger to his ear. “Hey, Smithers? That smoke bomb is amazing, add it to the kit list. The watch had a few minor calibration issues, nothing you can’t fix but the trajectory is off by a few degrees.” He grinned and waved at John and Sherlock, jogging over to where they stood. “I’m field testing today, can’t stay long. John, you’ve got… twenty minutes to go pick up Rosie. You’d better hurry.” He turned and continued talking into his earpiece, reports on the performance of his new tech. He seemed relaxed, happy even, and John smiled at the thought. 

 

Alex came for dinner that night. He bounced Rosie on his knee while she giggled and cried out for him to go faster. He had gotten into a discussion with Sherlock about the use of smoke screens as cover. Alex ended the argument with a breezy “well, until MI6 invent an invisibility cloak, it’s the best we’ve got,” and a wink at John. He had brought home some equipment from the bank (unofficial field testing- no one knew it existed) and passed it to Sherlock to examine while John peered at them over a cup of tea. Sherlock was nodding and muttering about the engineering, Alex grinning from his seat. They were home. They were safe. And Sherlock wasn’t bored. All was right on Baker Street.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This explains what happens to Rosie when Sherlock and John have a more dangerous case.   
> Alex returns to the Brecon Beacons (reluctantly) and Sherlock tracks down a serial killer, also in Wales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was great fun to write. Alex gets to act his age a little and has a bit of a laugh with the SAS, John experiences a bored Sherlock on long car journeys and Rosie gets a trip away from London. I also got to shamelessly quote the books (nothing is mine!).  
> When I originally wrote it, my Dad had just been to his squadron's anniversary party, hence the SAS get-together.  
> I would love to hear all your thoughts so please leave comments. I will try to respond but I can't really promise anything.

Alex woke to someone hammering on his door. He groaned, rolled over, and turned on the bedside light. Stumbling to the door, he ran a hand blearily through his hair and rubbed his eyes in a bid to look slightly less disoriented. John was standing in the doorway when he disabled the locks. He looked as exhausted as Alex felt, with slumped shoulders and dark rings under his eyes. “Are you alright to look after Rosie this weekend? I wouldn’t ask but Sherlock’s on a case and Mrs Hudson’s visiting a friend on the coast.” It took him far too long to understand what John was asking, his brain turning in a useless sleepy muddle. He blinked in confusion. “Uh, I’ll see if I’m free. Nothing’s  _ planned  _ as such but you never know.” John nodded and gave an exhausted grin, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks, mate. Come by for coffee later, if you have time.” Alex waved a hand dismissively and watched John go back upstairs before closing the door. He trusted his neighbours; but old habits die hard. 

 

He was on his second cup of coffee and had started on the dreaded reports when the phone rang. The number was not one he recognised. Tentatively, he picked it up, remaining silent to allow whoever was on the line to speak first. “Is this Alex Rider?” He almost dropped the phone in shock and settled for tightening his grip with a hastily stifled gasp. “Who is this?” Silence from the other end, a rustling of papers. “We don’t use names. I have no name; if you are who I hope you are, you have no name… Cub.” Alex sighed in relief. It was the sergeant. Why the SAS were getting in contact now, after all these years, was beyond him but he knew there was no harm coming from them. “What can I do for you, sir?” There was another rustle of paper, muffled yelling from the nearby training ground. The sergeant took a long time to respond. “We’re calling all on-leave unit members back to base as of Saturday; it’s all routine but you haven’t been back for years, Cub and I’ve let it go- not my place to ask questions- but this time I can’t make any exceptions.” He paused, took a breath, spoke more calmly. “It’s not just you, of course. The rest of K-unit will be coming and I believe Fox is visiting for the weekend to catch up with old friends. This is non-negotiable, Cub. 09:00, at the barracks, on Saturday. Be there.” He hung up the phone. Alex moved to his diary, saw there was nothing written, then remembered vaguely the conversation with John that morning. “Bugger,” he cried in horror.

 

It turned out John and Sherlock were heading to the same area of Wales on the same day. Over another coffee, Alex explained the situation, John spoke of the serial killer Sherlock was chasing who lured young girls into the forest, killed them, then hid their bodies in trees for a few weeks. The police were at a loss and, although he claimed he could solve it without being there, Sherlock had deigned to visit for the weekend, just to get out of London. Alex skirted around why he was going to Wales until John mentioned that ‘William’ (Alex still couldn’t see him as anything but Snake) was going for ‘some kind of 75th anniversary get together, or something.’ Alex looked at him with dawning realisation and horror. There was no important routine training or anything he had imagined, just a party. He had been tricked. They agreed John would take Rosie with them. If they ended up chasing the killer across the park, Alex would be contacted and he would take her, provided the sergeant was agreeable. Rosie was a mature young child who loved her ‘Uncle Alex’ and rarely cried. John knew she was safe in the company of a spy, a doctor, and three army men. 

 

The journey was… eventful. Alex knew that after that trip he would never share a car with Sherlock Holmes again. He argued with John, complained he was bored, read a book, complained he was bored, played with Rosie, complained he was bored. Then he shot a gun out the window. John swore, Alex almost veered off the road. “What the hell, Sherlock?” he yelled. “You could have killed someone!” Sherlock merely smirked until John snatched the gun off of him, unloaded it and handed it to Alex in the front. Alex refused to let it out of his sight. He gave the gun back to John when he dropped them off on the edge of Afan Forest. He continued on his way, humming along to the radio, revelling in blissful quiet.  

 

He arrived at the base just after 9am. He could see the rest of K-unit gathered together by the gates, surrounding someone in their centre. He parked the car and grabbed his bag from the back, slinging it easily over one shoulder. The slam of the car door made them turn. They were all there: Wolf, grim and unsmiling, Snake, tall and lean as always, Eagle, bouncing on his toes, Hawk, all quiet stoicism, and Ben, grinning wide enough to split his face. It took only a wave before Eagle was bounding over, closely followed by Ben. He laughed and returned their eager handshakes. “Back in line, you idiots!” The sergeant was waiting for them and although he sounded angry there was an amused twinkle in his eye. It was good to be back.  

 

The barracks were just as spartan as he remembered them. Three sets of bunk beds were pushed against the wall, made with stiff sheets and a lumpy duvet. The hardwood floor was swept clean to the doormat where the mud of every soldier since the beginning of the SAS had accumulated. There were no curtains in the windows and only one heater but it was summer so it didn’t really matter. Alex claimed the top bunk nearest the door as his own and dumped his bag on it with a satisfied groan. Heaving himself up onto the mattress, he sat on the bed and watched the rest of the unit claim their own beds. There were arguments over who bunked with Eagle, who never seemed to sleep, and Wolf, who apparently snored dreadfully. In the end, Ben claimed the bed directly under Alex, Snake and Eagle would share a pair of bunks and Hawk would suffer through sleeping under Wolf’s bed. When beds were finally sorted and bags unpacked, they followed Ben’s nose to the mess hall for lunch. 

 

The hall was stuffed to the rafters with soldiers. It seemed all the current SAS men, on active duty or not, had congregated for whatever the sergeant wanted them gathered for. Lunch was, therefore, a noisy affair. K-unit sat at a table with another unit that Eagle apparently recognised. He dragged Alex by the hand and forced him to sit next to him, a full tray of unrecognisable slop at his place. Eagle immediately started nattering away to the men at the table, leaving Alex to glanced, bewildered, at Ben, who gave a wry grin and shovelled some food into his mouth. Snake took pity on him and drew him into a conversation about an old mission in Angola that the unit had been on since he left to work for MI6 on his first mission. Somehow, the conversation turned to old friends and Snake spoke of John, the army surgeon he had worked with for all those years and he had just got back in touch with. “Cub lives next door, don’t you?” He was suddenly the subject of their scrutiny, photos were passed around of Sherlock, John and Rosie, the one of them all asleep on the sofa that Alex had kept to hold over Sherlock’s head. The wizened, war-hardened soldiers were cooing over photos of a sleeping baby as if they were mother-hens. Ben saw the photo and laughed at Alex, slumped over asleep in the chair with a baby on his lap. “Never took you to be the parental type, Cub.” Alex smirked and tugged back the photo, tucking it in the pocket of his jeans. “I’m more of an honourary uncle. I’ve known John and Sherlock almost since I got back from the States; they’re great.” Conversation veered away then and Alex returned to his surprisingly tasty meal.

 

In the afternoon, they lined up in front of the barracks in their units. The sergeant barked out orders in his sharp, cutting voice. There was a shooting practise followed by a languages quiz for all units. Alex burst out laughing, much to the disapproval of the sergeant. Ben placed an inconspicuous hand over his mouth to muffle the sound but it was too late. As they walked to the shooting field, Hawk asked why he found it so funny. Ben and Alex both chuckled and Ben slung an arm around his shoulder. “Cub, here, is MI6’s top spy: expert marksman, trained in the deadly art of instinctive shooting, languages master, fluent in seven and proficient in four more, luck of the devil and twice as charming.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “He was my senior for years until I switched employers. He’s a legend.” Hawk raised an eyebrow in suspicion and Alex gave his most innocent grin. “I promise I have no idea what he’s talking about. Yes, I’m a spy. Yes, I’m good at languages. But I’m no legend; it’s all rumours and hearsay.” Hawk didn’t look convinced but the subject was dropped when they got to the shooting range. 

 

They took turns to shoot, practising with clumsy fingers until they hit their stride. They chose an order in which to shoot, so that everyone would compete against people of similar ability. Eagle, the sniper, would go last. Snake, the medic, would go first. Scores would be totalled and a winning unit chosen. When it was Alex’s turn, he sauntered to the table and assembled his gun, hands flying in a mockery of the other soldiers, then stepped up to the line. “Ready… fire!” He closed his eyes, remembering Scorpia’s hated mantra, letting the gun become an extension of his arm. He fired quickly, rattling off three bullets in seconds, opened his eyes to see his score. Maximum points: ten for each shot. He waited for someone to bring in the target and nodded, all were in the bullseye region, one out slightly further. A good pattern. Eagle went next and had a similar, if slightly more scattered, result. Their unit did not win, surprisingly, but they were a clôse second. Ben refused to stop laughing as the instructor spluttered in shock at Alex’s score. Eagle, too, was shocked: the sniper had been out-shot by the spy.

 

The languages quiz was laughable. All SAS soldiers are required to learn at least one foreign language to a proficient standard but for Alex and Ben, one language just wasn’t enough. Ben was fluent in three languages and knew bits and pieces of two more. Alex was fluent in seven (in the time spent between missions, bored out of his mind, he learnt languages he thought useful). With the two of them on the team, any quiz would be a piece of cake. Eventually, the sergeant, who was acting as quizmaster, noticed (it took Alex answering the same question in French, Japanese and Arabic for this to happen) and banned Alex from answering questions. They were still far enough ahead to win by a mile.  

 

The next morning prompted a twenty kilometre hike through the national park. They crossed fast flowing streams and clambered over boulders, stopped for lunch on a hill, crossed a road running past a friendly Welsh village. They consulted the map to check their location and veered East to reconnect with the other units. Alex’s phone rang. Seeing John’s number, he picked up. “We found him. Heading your way; should hit the Beacons in about ten minutes. Are you alright to watch Rosie for the rest of the day?” He sounded a bit out of breath, the sound of the engine running didn’t quite drown it out. “Hang on a minute,” he replied and turned to Wolf. “Do you mind us watching a kid for a few hours. She’s very well behaved.” There was a chorus of assent so he turned back to the phone. “Everyone else says it’s fine. We’re at Coel Bren, near the waterfall.” John hung up the phone and Alex pocketed it.

 

It took them about fifteen minutes to reach them in the battered jeep they had borrowed. John bounded out of the car, deposited Rosie in Alex’s arms and turned to leave again with a brief ‘he’s chasing us’ thrown over his shoulder. The jeep’s wheeled spun in the sticky mud and Sherlock jumped down to check it twitchily. It was then that a second jeep careened into view.

 

Skidding to a stop, the man flew out of the car and barrelled into Sherlock who had no hope of dodging. They grappled frantically; Sherlock attempted to take his knife. It was edging ever closer to the delicate skin of his throat. John was bellowing; Rosie was screaming from her new position on the floor. Bang! There was a brief shriek, then silence. Creeping closer cautiously, Alex and John regarded the scene before them. 

 

The murderer was dead. Lying at Sherlock’s feet as the blood drained from a neat gunshot wound to his skull, his eyes had rolled up to the sky and his knife had been discarded by his lifeless hand. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as Alex moved closer, nodding at the gun still in his hand. “Your work, I’d assume?” Alex nodded and smirked. “That was quite the shot.” K-unit seemed to have overcome their shock as they marched forward, Wolf in the lead as always. Snake moved straight to Sherlock, checking him for injuries from the encounter. Eagle examined the body, taking in the bullet wound, the angle of the shot. “You know, I think I believe you now, Fox,” he said weakly, pointing at the corpse. Ben chuckled but Wolf exploded as he stalked up to Alex. “You idiot! You could have killed your friend. What were you thinking?” Alex stared at him levelly, then at John who had picked up Rosie, then to the man lying dead on the floor. Something unreadable flickered across his face, grief perhaps, then it was gone. “I was thinking I didn’t want another friend to die. I didn’t want a child to lose her uncle, a man to lose his best friend. I was thinking if I could make the shot, I should. And I did.” Wolf frowned but nodded the ‘we’ll talk about this later’ clear. 

 

They made it back to base in time for the barbeque the cook had set up in their absence. Alex and Wolf took Sherlock, John and Rosie to see the sergeant in his office. He allowed them to stay the night but advised them to leave the next day, giving Alex permission to take them home. They ate, bantered with the other soldiers, told war stories and allowed Sherlock to deduce everyone he came across. He amazed them all, of course. Then they left to bunk in an abandoned cabin for the night. Alex broke his newly made promise the next morning, when he drove Sherlock and John back to Baker Street. The action was deeply regretted. Never again, he promised himself. Never again.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Rosie's birthday. Alex is really great with kids (surprisingly). There is fluff, a party, and presents that I spent far too long researching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter! Don't worry, though; it's not the end.  
> I will continue with The Baker Street Boys and there will be a sequel for this story. I have already written two chapters but I want to get a few more done so I can keep a schedule up through my mock exams in January. The first chapter will go up around Christmas to keep an eye out for it!  
> I hope you have enjoyed the journey (I know I have) and, as always, leave a comment at the bottom of the page- in particular if there is anything you want to see in the sequel.

It was Rosie’s birthday and John had to work. Alex got the text telling him so at two in the afternoon, just as he was leaving a briefing at the bank, which left him approximately an hour to get to the other side of London to pick her up from school. He would have to cross the river, take two separate tube lines and possibly a taxi to get there. Or he could stop at Baker Street and drive the rest of the way; but traffic in London in the afternoon was the literal definition of Hell and he didn’t want to risk being late. Sherlock had helped John organise a party. 

 

As he rushed up the path to the best state school John had been able to find that also passed Alex’s stringent security checks, he noticed a small huddle of little girls at the gates, knee high socks grubby in a way only young children can make them. Rosie saw him first and broke from the crowd. “Uncle Alex!” she cried and launched herself into his arms with enough force to make him stagger, “you came!” Beaming, he swung her around before setting her down and staring at her severely. “Of course I did. Did you really think I would miss my favourite almost-god-daughter’s birthday?” He tapped her nose and she giggled as she shook her head. He turned to the woman at the gate, middle-aged with brown hair and a face that would have been pretty when she was younger. There was something vaguely familiar about her. “Am I taking all of these?” She laughed, a light and breezy sound and pulled out a slip of paper from the file under her arm. “You’d be Mr Baker, then? Yes, these are all for you today. I assume Dr Watson’s working.” Her voice raised at the end with the unasked question and Alex nodded absently, studying her face for that elusive clue to her identity. She shunted the gaggle of girls out of the gates and turned away, heels clicking on the tarmac.

 

Alex shook off his lingering deja vu and herded the girls towards the tube station at the end of the street. They were incredibly excited but none more so than Rosie who swung off Alex’s arm and chattered away to her friends too quickly for Alex to decipher. Swiping his Oystercard, he asked her innocently who the teacher was, standing at the gate. “Oh, that’s Miss Bedfordshire. She’s lovely. She used to be a secretary at another school but she left; she’s in charge of the office now.” He blinked in shock. Miss Bedfordshire? What were the odds of running into the secretary that had had such a soft spot for him at school? Shaking off his shock, he pulled them onto the train, sat them down, and scanned the carriage for anyone suspicious. 

 

He didn’t notice the man until they changed line. He stood about six feet tall, with arms like tree trunks and a barrel-chest. A brutish thug, but one who had tracked Alex across London with little difficulty. He ignored him in favour of asking Rosie what she wanted for her birthday: if he wanted to make a move, Alex would act but until then he could wait. 

 

Arriving at Baker Street was a procession of such pomp and circumstance Alex could almost believe they were visiting royalty. Sherlock actually answered the door, wearing a suit of course, with his violin under his chin only to tell them to bother Mrs Hudson instead. One of the girls, cluelessly ebullient as all little girls are, rushed to his door, opened it in her eagerness, and promptly got flattened by Alex as a projectile catapulted over their heads. A second girl screamed but Rosie merely laughed and took them down to Mrs Hudson while Alex reset his locks, face burning with embarrassment. 

 

Three hours later, John was home and retrieved the girls from the kitchen where they had been plied with biscuits for far too long. Alex had made himself a cup of coffee and retreated to his room to wrap presents about an hour before and decided not to reappear when they brought out the cake. It was sliced quickly and each girl had a piece to take home. They were taken to Regent’s Park across the road to play a ball game before the parents arrived to collect them, a grimmer gathering Alex couldn’t imagine, and the rest of Rosie’s dysfunctional ‘family’ arrived.   

 

K-unit arrived first, in true military style, marching up to the door and knocking sharply. They poured a mountain of presents into Rosie’s arms and headed straight for the kitchen and Mrs Hudson’s impressive spread of food. Molly and Lestrade arrived within minutes of each other. Anderson had not been invited (Sherlock still couldn’t stand him) but Lestrade had brought a card from him. John’s overly flamboyant sister, Harry, showed up ten minutes late, took off her coat and joined the party, refusing all alcohol sent her way. Alex watched from the quiet corner of the room, glass of orange juice in hand. A fashionably late Mycroft swept in, deposited a large cheque on the mantlepiece, wished Rosie a happy birthday, and swept out again without so much as removing his gloves. The radio was playing loudly, there was food and drink for all, all his favourite people were together, and he was content. Finally, everyone settled down for Rosie to open her presents in a modicum of quiet. 

 

Sherlock had given her an honest-to-goodness chemistry set, complete with bunsen burner and reactive metals. John’s eyes widened and he pulled it from her hands as she tried to shake the box, putting it safely on the counter as she hugged her uncle. K-unit had bought her books for children with varying degrees of proficiency and in several languages. Alex grinned at John as she turned to Wolf, speaking in slow but careful Spanish. He had taught her for a laugh, back when he had time on his hands and she was on school holiday. Molly, Lestrade and John had banded together to get a violin in a case, books and lessons; it must have cost a fortune but Rosie’s beam more than made up for it (“now I can play along with Uncle Sherlock”). 

 

She opened Alex’s present last. He had wrapped it carefully in brightly patterned paper he knew she would love. It had been cumbersome to bring home but, in the end, buying the thing had been vital to the success of his mission. She unwrapped the paper to find a layer of bubble wrap which she spent five minutes popping and giggling as she squeezed the individual bubbles. Stripping it off, she revealed the heavy wooden mask, carved in the shape of a monkey and painted in red and yellow. She picked it up and held it to her face, staggering around and giggling while the adults watched with soft smiles. The congregation began to separate, some for food or drink, others to turn on the TV, John to clear up the paper. Alex stood, thinking to grab some cake before it all disappeared. His phone buzzed.

  
He was not expecting any messages: it was the reason his briefing had been that morning. It could have been Tom but they had met up for a drink only a week ago. He checked his screen: unknown number. He checked the message and felt the blood drain from his face. Looking up to see Sherlock’s perceptive gaze on him, he shook his head and mouthed ‘got to go’ in his general direction before heading to the coat rack. He slipped a folded piece of paper in John’s coat pocket as he grabbed his own and slipped out of the door. He sent a message to the Bank, warning of his arrival, and a second to Sherlock.  _ ‘They’re watching me. I’ll be back once I’ve lost them.’ _ Night was falling and storm clouds gathered overhead, foretelling that winter was coming. He thought of John and Sherlock and the family they had, the family he had stolen. He could not allow them to come to harm. Looking back only once at the familiar door to 221B, he stepped out into the twilight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really am so sorry about the cliff-hanger.  
> Please leave a comment or kudos.


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